


Dreams of Fire and Gold

by Umbralpilot



Category: Samurai Warriors
Genre: F/M, Sexual Content, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-13
Updated: 2012-03-13
Packaged: 2017-11-01 21:59:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/361734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Umbralpilot/pseuds/Umbralpilot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Hideyoshi lets himself dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreams of Fire and Gold

**Author's Note:**

> This fic... is probably more inspired by Yoshikawa Eiji's "Taiko-ki" than the games, but what do.
> 
> Thanks to Bellflower for the beta~!

Sometimes, when a battle has been won, another enemy conquered, he allows himself to dream about O-Ichi.

They are, inevitably, richly erotic dreams: he lies on his back, naked, almost lost in a rustling landscape of silks, and she leans over him and her breasts hang like pale sweet plums. He dreams the smell of her, cleanness and cherry blossoms, night on winter snow. Her hands dance wing-like on the sun-baked skin of his arms, his sunken chest and reedy legs. She lays herself across him, all of her lithe, taller form, so that his head rests against the nape of her neck, his lips tickled by the shudder of her low, full moans in her throat. She lets him bury his ugliness in the fall of her hair, and spreads her legs to his calloused hands, or takes him in her mouth and allows him to swell and fill and stretch it. When she screams against him, she calls him _Hashiba-sama_ , as though that name belonged to a lord.

Sometimes she whispers in his ear; she leans oh so close, closer than ever, and she whispers _well done, Monkey_ in her brother's voice.

He wakes with a start then, breathless, forlorn, helplessly aroused. Nene is in his bed. She smells of a simple dinner of rice and bean paste, and wraps herself around him with open, welcoming warmth. In the dark, she lies under him and crushes him to her, rising into his thrusts while her smiling lips whisper prayers to Hotei, Kichijōten, Kwannon. He spends himself inside her and sleeps in peace, released, the warmth and softness of her body holding him against walls that are too thin, a futon that is too hard, and another long day of fighting, fighting, fighting.

It's no secret that Nobunaga's upjumped peasant-general lusts after his lord's beautiful younger sister. After all, there is hardly a man amongst the Oda retainers who hasn't entertained that selfsame thought, down to crusty, well-dreaded Demon Shibata himself. Hideyoshi knows his place. He does not bring her gifts or offer her verse; his words are as crude as his taste in finery, and his handwriting is barely legible even to himself. But he salutes her at every victory won, staring at her at every celebration and banquet when she sits at her brother's side. She is never so beautiful as when she claims that rightful place; in his mind, she easily outshines Noh, a truer and brighter lady of the Oda. She has her clan's beauty, sculpted, ethereal: she is as much a lovely spirit as her brother is a demon. She is all his singular, brilliant life, and none of the fire that bursts from it.

Hideyoshi is an officer of the Oda now, a samurai, almost a general; he fights day after day. He pulls a bow, swings a staff, or a commander's fan, or a hoe or a firewood axe, bends his back to packs of supplies, squints his eyes at maps and plans. He wipes sweat from his eyes and blood from his hands and mud from his sandals. He returns home to Nene and tells, eyes wide and voice pitched high with excitement, about the places he has seen and the men he has fought and the glory and might of his lord. They eat their rice and bean paste, and sometimes they have money for fish or for sweets: more and more often now. Nobunaga is good to them, the Oda are good to them. One day they will have treasures, gold, a castle; silk, gunpowder and steel. He will have all that he desires, he says to Nene, and she laughs as she pulls him under the covers.

 _All that you desire_ , he whispers to her, and buries his face in her, her simple brown hair and the swell of her breasts, and tries again, again, to give her the only thing that she will ever desire in the world. Her longing lets him forget his, forget another face, another name; _Hyoshi_ , she calls him in her pleasure and her hope, and his world narrows down, and becomes real again. No fire but the fire in the hearth, no black but the black of the night sky. And no gold, no gold at all.

Nene smells like home, like joy and purity. She shines like the sun in the spring. He loves her with a love so sweet and uncomplicated, small wonder it rocks and withers with the turbulence of the time. She is the finest wife a man like him could hope for, and he treasures her, is grateful for her, returns to her when war and wine have worn away and left him spent and stumbling. But sometimes - some dark, illicit times, when he triumphs, when he forgets, when blood and blessings leave him dizzy - he looks up at O-Ichi, and he dreams.


End file.
